Anthony Puyo's The Compelled

by Anthony Puyo

  The infected running down the aisle with the hook, trips over Craig’s ankle, skidding a few feet. The hook screeches on the floor. Craig slightly makes an “oof” sound.

  The infected gets up and stares back at Craig. A homeless drug addict before he was infected, the scraggly teenager looks to be in bad health. His hair is blond and fairly long. It’s mangled and dirty like the rest of him. He wears a torn green sweater made of thick yarn knits. His face is pale grey, and his teeth are mostly gone. The remaining few are marbled black and yellow in color.

  He walks back towards Craig—hook dangling from his hand. His eyes laser at Craig who stays silent and still.

  If Craig could only see the deathly look of this crazed young man whose saliva drips from his ugly mouth and is only getting closer with every lurching step, he probably wouldn’t lie there, but instead, pull the “handheld rocket launcher,” as Jerry put it, from his waist and use it.

  “Take this bitches!” Craig hears from one of the gangsters, followed by automatic weapons and a hefty bang from a shotgun.

  Soon after, bodies begin dropping down. Some falling into the shelves knocking store goods down.

  The scraggly infected teen starts to kneel down by Craig. Hearing the breath of the madman is beginning to make Craig scream inside. The ghastly, young man slowly starts to lean his head to the side and down towards his prey’s chest. It’s only a matter of seconds before the infected realizes that Craig is alive.

  Craig’s eyes tighten. Not this way. Not without seeing Melissa and Ryan.

  “You a dead bitch now, holmes,” says one of the Hispanic men who wields a sawed-off shotgun.

  The Infected stands up and turns, raising his hook, ready to strike. He snarls angrily before launching to kill. Four steps are taken before two very loud buckshots blast from the shotgun: one in the chest, one in the gut, send the infected back, dead, and down on top of Craig.

  The gangster, along with his accomplices, begin to hoot and howl over their victory. After a trice, they grab their things and run out the back where they came from.

  Meanwhile, Craig moves the dead infected off him in disgust. He’s not fond of having someone else’s blood on him (for the second time), not considering that it’s better than having his own blood on him.

  He begins to leave the aisle, heading toward the front exit. He kicks something accidently while stepping over a body. The way it sounded, he was almost certain it was a cellphone. Pulling his flashlight, he gets a hold of it. Lucky for him; it still has some charge. Craig excitedly dials his wife. It rings twice.

  “Hello?” The sweet voice says on the other end.

  Craig’s knees weaken at the sound of her.

  “Melissa? You're okay—thank god!”

  “Craig!” Melissa reverberates. In the background, Ryan asks who’s on the phone. “It’s your daddy, sweetie!”

  “Honey I’m so— . . . Where are you?!”

  “We came to Jessie’s.” Her voice fluttered tightly when she mentioned her sister’s name.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “Jessie’s gone, babe.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “She’s dead, Craig.”

  Jessie is Melissa’s older and only sister. But she was much more than that to her. Craig knew their relationship. He knew how pivotal Jessie was in Melissa’s life. He could only imagine the grief that laid within her heart. He felt her loss tremendously.

  In a somber voice, Craig apologizes. “Baby, I’m sorry to hear that. She was a good woman.” There is a slight pause. Melissa’s tears nearly leaked through the phone which leaves Craig to ask, “How’s Ruben? Is he—”

  “Ruben is fine . . . we’re with him.”

  Ruben is Jessie's husband.

  “Thank god for that . . . Can I talk to Ryan?”

  “He’s still under the weather, and he can’t hear too good.”

  “Dad?” Ryan says, with a raspy voice filled with happiness.

  “How are you holding up, son?”

  “I’m okay, Dad. Are you coming soon?”

  “You bet I’m coming. Just a little while longer. In the meantime, you take care of your mother for me.”

  “Okay, Dad, but we really miss you. Could you please hurry?”

  Craig dreads having his family apart from him. He feels powerless, angry—frustrated. He can’t allow anything happen to them. If something were to, and he wasn’t there to protect them, there would be no way to live with that. He feels it’s a man’s duty to protect his family. Craig, for the most part, is a passive person, but his family means everything to him. It’s one thing he will defend till the bitter end. But for now, he’s grateful to have Ruben there in his place.

  “I will, son . . . don’t worry.” Doubt tried to seep in and funnel out of his words, but he kept it at bay for his boy. “Put your mom on the phone?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Ryan passes the phone to Melissa.

  “Hello?” Melissa eagerly replies.

  “I’m about five miles away. It’s tricky getting there, so I might be a little while. How are you guys doing? Do you have everything you need?”

  “We’re fine. We're in the cellar. Ruben’s been in the house keeping an eye out and on the news. It’s scary when we hear the gunshots and explosion, but we’re managing.”

  “That’s good, honey. Is Ruben close by so I can speak to him? I want to thank him.”

  “He was, but he’s on top right now.”

  “I want to thank him personally, for helping you guys. It means a lot. I also want to give him my condolences on his loss.”

  Melissa’s voice shakes. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell him how you feel . . . Please get to us, Craig. We need you . . . I need you.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you when I can. I love you.”

  “Dido.”

  They hang up.

  Melissa’s fragile tone said it all. Seeing Craig would surely lift their spirits in this dark time. And seeing them would do the same for his own.

  With love and determination flowing through his veins, Craig presses forward.

  4

  A Friend with Benefits

  Craig steps outside the market, and once again, heads north towards downtown. The mayhem on the streets makes travel slow and difficult.

  Not too far up the street, Craig sees several people and some cops in a gunfight. It didn’t make much sense to him.

  Are they regular or infected? Why are they fighting?

  To Craig, it looks like people shooting at people. If that is the case, it couldn’t be more disappointing.

  The government said we should unite, assholes!

  The people hide behind crashed cars, hydrants, walls as they shoot at one another. A flipped over paramedics-van in the middle street, is partially on fire, separating the two factions of people. It’s complete chaos in Craig’s eyes.

  Earlier, a fire truck impaled into a building halfway onto the street, scattering the people around there. Some policemen were on chase of a group of criminals that happened to flee into one of those building’s shops. They surrounded the area, but quickly realized they were outgunned.

  The cops spread out, ducking for cover with their guns drawn. A few regular citizens are helping the officers shoot at the aggressive group of vandals.

  Craig crouches behind a car that’s smashed up against a shop’s wall, watching. Suddenly, a loud whistle in the sky is heard by everyone, causing them to gaze up. Most mouths and eyes gape at the fireball above them.

  A private plane scorches down from the sky. It goes over everyone’s head less than eighty feet in the air. The roaring whistle is loud, causing the people on the ground to cover their ears. Seconds later, it hits down, flooding the air with a tremendous explosion.

  A medium-build man, in autumn colored hunting gear, armed with a scoped rifle, turns and sits behind a shot-up car to reload. He’s in his mi
d-fifties but looks years younger. He has sandy-blond, straight hair—that’s cut short, red and blond mustache, stubbed haired full cheeks, and round blue eyes.

  Putting his head down to load his rifle, the man sees what he believes to be someone’s face in the crannies of a wrecked car.

  “I see you over there; you one of them infected? A criminal?” The man says in a stern, mid-deep voice.

  Craig afraid, doesn’t answer. The middle aged man gets up, draws his gun, and slowly creeps towards the wrecked car. Craig reaches for his long-barrel with very little confidence.

  Say something, stupid, before you get killed!

  “I’m not infected, and I’m not a criminal . . . Just a man trying to get by with no trouble,” Craig shouts.

  The man in hunting gear pops out in the open to where Craig is. He briskly points a flashlight in his eyes, blinding him.

  Craig covers with his forearm. “What are you doing? I can’t see.”

  “Your eyes. Let me see your eyes,” the man says, without an ounce of joking in his voice.

  Craig takes his arm away from his face, squinting in the light. “Jeez . . . are you happy?”

  The man switches the light off. Craig rubs his eyes.

  “What are you doing out here?” The man questions.

  “I told you. I’m just trying to get through. What’s it to you?”

  The man lightly chuckles. “Not a bad answer, buddy. But you do realize we're in a fucking war. With zero under control. If you're headed that way, you’re pretty much heading to your grave.” The gunshots and the yelling in the background get louder, making the man duck his head.

  “Doesn’t matter. I need to get through; even if it means I’ll die.”

  “Oh, I see. A real tough guy.”

  “No. Just determined.”

  The man sees no lie in Craig. He’s not a threat either. “Hell, buddy, whatever it is waiting for you out that way, must be real precious. I admire your will.”

  Both of them turn instantly to the sound of a hollering man who’s been struck by a bullet. The man falls to his back, dead.

  “Damn! We’re losing, and we got no help,” the mid-aged man relays.

  Craig asks, “Who are you guys fighting with?”

  “There some looters, criminals, murderers, well you know, the whole bottom of the barrel in that building right across from here. They stole a shit load of ammunition, some guns, medicine and other things of importance. They killed a couple of cops on their way here.” He points to the officers, “That’s why they’re here. For some payback I’m sure. I need what they took. It belongs to me and some good men—a group of mine. Them fucking riffraff have to give it back. It’s in the wrong hands. Those fuckers don’t care about nothing but protecting their own!”

  The mustached man is very animate about what he is saying. He pauses for a second. Then it hits him. He continues, “I’ll tell you what, I’m short on men here. If you back me up, so I can get in there, I’ll get you an update on what's going on downtown—maybe even help you get there.”

  Craig thinks hard. He could take his chances on his own, but if he had help from this man; who looks like the type that could handle himself, then possibly, it’s in his best interest to do so. Anything that can help him reach his goal in reuniting with his family, has to be looked at as a good thing––right?

  Craig sighs. “Alright then, you lead the way.”

  The man smiles invitingly and extends his hand. “The names Charlie Bodine.”

  Craig shakes Charlie’s hand. “Craig Bainy,” he responds, noticing a skull and crossed rifles tattoo on the man’s wrist.

  Charlie and Craig find their way to the side of the building, heading near the rear. As they close in, voices are heard in the alley. They get down, low towards the edge of the wall. The alleyway is thin, leaving no room for a shootout, which could prove deadly for all parties. There’s also a seven-foot wall across, separating it from the apartments on the other side of the block.

  Two men, heavily armed, stand by the backdoor.

  “Tell Marcus to bring the chest. We’ll get a head start taking it down through here. All he has to do, is keep the pigs busy up front.” One of them says to the other.

  Craig peers at Charlie. “What do you want to do? Get them when they have what’s yours in their hands?”

  Charlie with a pause before answering. “Nahh. We don’t have the firepower.”

  The thugs had on armored vest and automatic weapons. They gave an impression of a well prepared group.

  Charlie continues, “I don’t want to put us in a situation we can’t get out of.”

  They hear the thugs’ voices again, but this time they sound anxious. “Get in here, hurry!”

  “Come on!” They say, running into the building.

  “Something's up, they didn’t even bother closing the door,” Charlie remarks, peeking around the corner. “Let’s check it out.”

  They sneak to the back door. Once there, they hear guns going off wildly followed by screams and yells deep inside.

  “What the hell is going on in there?” Craig blurts.

  Charlie replies. “Not sure . . . sounds bad.”

  The two cautiously head in.

  The place is a small, dark stockroom with the entrance door open. Scuffling shadows and gunfire can be seen lighting up the front of the place.

  Charlie and Craig get about fifteen feet in, nearly stumbling over a corpse in the darkness. The body belongs to a fallen thug who lays with a large kitchen knife sticking out of his chest.

  Charlie whispers to Craig while pointing to an AR15 next to the dead, “Grab his gun.” He shakes his head at the sight, “Looks like the work of the crazies.”

  The gunfire dies down considerably, with most being heard on the street in front of the store.

  Charlie and Craig make their way out of the stockroom, emerging behind the register counter. The place happens to be a sports memorabilia shop.

  Another thug dangles over the countertop with an axe wedged deeply into his shoulder blade.

  Gun shots and more yelling make the men veer their sight out the front window. Flashes of fire, from automatic guns, lights up the area out there.

  A man on the street shouts while he sprays the street down with bullets. “Die you bastards!”

  Soon, the man is overcome by shadows of many taking him down. The squishy wet sound of tenderized flesh is tormenting to Charlie’s and Craig’s ears.

  Charlie whispers, “They’re merciless.” He turns his attention a few feet from the counters. “There’s the chest! Let's get it and move before the crazies find us.”

  Craig replies, “Hurry then.”

  Charlie pulls out his CB—static is heard—he shakes it. “Fucking thing. Reception is getting worse.” He speaks into it. “Darkman, it’s West Eagle. We got the prize.” He repeats the call, but there’s no answer on the other end. “Ahh jeez, this is fucked up.”

  Static begins to part on the CB. Someone talks through it; the voice is cold, raspy, with no emotion. “Where are you?”

  Charlie winces his face. He doesn’t recognize the voice. “Who’s this? Where’s Darkman?”

  “Tell us where you are?” the voice says again, with a deceptive overtone.

  “You tell me where’s Darkman?”

  An evil laugh comes out of the CB. “He’s no longer available . . . Would you like to join him?” Charlie disappointed, turns to Craig.

  Charlie’s a tough one. A retired war veteran and close friend of local law enforcement. There’s very little that scares him. He once told his unit, “Being in war, you must be ready for surprises, for they are common in battle.” Though he said that—he himself wasn’t immune to it.

  “Shit! I don’t know if they killed everyone out there,” Charlie says, tapping the CB antenna on his forehead. He stays controlled, knowing the situation is getting worse, and he must figure out a way to get out of this place. “Let’s get back to the stockroom. Sometimes th
ese old stores have attics that lead to the top.”

  Craig’s not sure what he’s got himself into, feeling this mess is only delaying his reunion with Melissa and Ryan. “I can’t stay here, Charlie. I have to go. I need to get to downtown.”

  Charlie wide eyed, figuring Craig doesn’t have a clue, remarks, “Are you crazy! If you think you're going to make it out this second, you've done lost your marbles.”

  Craig emulates a kid being scolded by his father.

  Charlie continues. “My expert opinion: it’s a bad idea. But it’s your choice, but before you go, check that gun for ammo. God knows you don’t stand a chance if you have to resort to your revolver. If you want my help going out that way, I suggest you . . . we get on top of this building and secure ourselves for the night.”

  Craig rationalizes. He knows Charlie’s right, but the desire to be there for his family is strong. What good would will it do if I can’t survive the journey?

  “Okay, Charlie, I’ll stay . . . but we have to leave tomorrow as soon as it’s safe.”

  In the stockroom, like Charlie figured, there is a fold-out ladder that leads to the store’s attic. They struggle getting the chest to the top.

  To stop the infected, who are capable of climbing the ladder, Craig uses his tire-iron to wedge the bolted latches off the ladder—forcefully detaching it from the attic. Taking no chances, they bring the whole ladder up with them. They don’t stop there for security. They pile what they can on the latch-door leaving no opportunity for an intrusion.

  After all the work, the guys gasp. Trying to survive is a tiring job.

  Craig, hands on his knees, looks to Charlie, “Now what?”

  Charlie observes the dark attic with his flashlight. There was plenty of useless junk, mostly in old boxes surrounded by dust and webs. It’s obvious the attic was a seldom used room. He spots another stepladder, this one leading to the top of the building.

  Charlie goes over and pushes it open. “We’ll stay put for the night. We can check the area from the roof tomorrow and make a plan then.”

  The old soldier grabs a large floor-fan he sees, plugging it and putting out the top hatch facing the stars. He then grabs a metal trash can lid and some old cloth covers that are folded in the corner of the room. He tears the cloth to strands then dips them in a can of tar left over from a roof project. He lights them on the trash can cover. A fire smoothly starts with most of the fumes and smoke escaping out the open ceiling from the fans suction.